Page 41 of Gone Tonight
My heart sinks.
“Let’s try another way,” she suggests. “Have you ever returned a book late—or lost one?”
“I, ah, can’t remember.”
The librarian’s smile is kind. “You would’ve received a fee.”
“Maybe? I’m sorry, I’m not sure.… Things have been a little confusing for me lately.”
She glances down at my mother’s card. “I’ll be happy to check.” Her fingers click across her computer’s keyboard.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t see anything.”
I nod and thank her, my heart sinking. I’m about to leave when I impulsively spin back around.
“Do you have a book titledUnderstanding Alzheimer’s?”
Her fingers click again, and this time she nods. She comes out from behind the desk and leads me to the correct aisle, pulling the hardcover book off a shelf.
I thank her and walk to a nearby chair, sinking down into it as Iopen the cover. I don’t know what I’m looking for. But I feel compelled to hold the book my mother sought out.
I flip through it, my eyes skimming the pages.
Some of the information is academic, some anecdotal, but it’s all wrapped in clear language. One chapter is for caregivers, and it describes the turbulent emotions family members typically undergo when a loved one receives a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. I know this to be true because I see it all the time at work. And I’ve experienced it myself.
There’s a paragraph about a daughter whose father forgot to turn off the gas stove, nearly burning down the house, and another one about a son who says he knew something was wrong when his mother left a carton of eggs in a kitchen cupboard.
I blink and reread that sentence.
My mother did the exact same thing recently.
I lean forward, my posture tightening, scanning the words faster.
Two pages later, there’s another eerily familiar anecdote: Family members could no longer deny the knowledge that something was terribly wrong when their beloved grandmother got lost on her way home from the neighborhood drugstore.
My mouth dries up. There’s a strange humming in my ears.
It’s as if the exact symptoms my mother experienced sprang off these very pages.
I keep reading.
One woman who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s forgot what month it was. A few days later, she called ice cubes “water squares.”
I’m hyperventilating.
The book falls out of my hands, landing on the floor, as I leap up and run outside. I’m aware of someone calling after me, asking if I’m okay.
I collapse onto a bench in front of the library, my head in my hands. The world around me is swirling too fast. It’s dizzying.
A suspicion is building in my brain, one so bizarre and terrifying I can’t yet form the framework to express it.
I no longer know what is real.
This must be what it feels like to lose your mind.
A sob wrenches free from my throat and I begin to shake. My vision blurs. Then I hear someone’s voice close by.
“Are you okay?”
